


your wildest dreaming

by republica



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Catholic School, F/F, F/M, Gen, Recreational Drug Use, References to Abuse, Religious Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-09
Updated: 2013-04-18
Packaged: 2017-12-08 00:44:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/754990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/republica/pseuds/republica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eponine knows she has a reputation at St. Genevieve's School for Girls. She's just trying to get through senior year, but the arrival of a new student throws everything out of order. </p><p>Cosette's just transferred, and the only person she can't seem to charm is the one girl she wants to get to know better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> so the majority of "Saint Genevieve's" is based on my own high school which was all girls & Catholic so I hope no one from there is reading this bc its pretty obvious

Eponine doesn’t expect anything exciting to happen the first day of senior year, especially not in a class unironically called “Christian Lifestyles.” Their teacher, a short plump woman who truly embodies the term ‘pear-shaped,’ is notorious for being a hardass, and when she instructs the class to get out of their chairs for a seating chart there’s a collective groan from the assembled seniors.

Slouching against the back wall, Eponine isn’t really paying attention at all until she hears her own name called and realises the teacher has placed her in the front row. “So I can keep an eye on you,” the woman says with a sugary sweet voice, and Eponine gives her her biggest smile in return, mentally cursing. She knows she has a... reputation, of sorts, with the Theology department, but every other teacher has been content to let her apathetically brood in the back rows. Apparently this year she’ll be getting a more hands-on method. Lovely.

 **** She pulls the seat out loudly, flops down into it, and promptly places her head in her hands. No one comes to sit in the seat next to her, and the teacher finishes the placements, before turning to the board and writing the title of the class in big letters.

 **** “Eponine!” She calls, her voice still overly friendly, “If you’d read the intro paragraph of chapter one for us, dear?”

 **** Eponine lifts her head from her desk to meet the teacher’s eyes. “I don’t have a book,” she says.

 **** A small line creases the woman’s brow. “Now, I’m sure you know by now you ought to have a book on the first day of class!” She laughs, and Eponine’s jaw clenches, slightly.

 **** “Haven’t had the chance to pick up the new ones from the office yet,” she grits out. She’s certain the teacher knows she’s a scholarship student, and therefore gets her books for free. It’s first period and she’d had to deal with Azelma’s first day of high-school jitters, and they’d both barely made it in before the first bell.

 **** “Oh, of course, I forgot about your _circumstances_ ,” the teacher says. “Well -”

 **** Whatever she’s about to say is interrupted by the classroom door swinging open. The principal, a round woman with very short gray hair and a masculine look, is standing next to a girl Eponine’s never seen before. She’s got long blonde hair pulled back by a purple headband, and her eyes are bright and curious.

 **** “Sorry to interrupt,” the principal says, “But I’ve got a new student to introduce to you all.” She leads the girl further into the room. “This is Euphrasie Valjean.”

 **** “Hi,” the girl says, giving a little wave. Eponine decides she doesn’t like her. Everything about her screams ‘epitome of Catholic schoolgirl’. She’s even wearing knee socks, for fuck’s sake.

 "Welcome, dear!” The teacher says, cheerful and saccharine. The principal leaves, shutting the door behind her again with a loud thud! and they all turn to look at Euphrasie. The girl doesn’t shrink under their combined gaze, and Eponine reluctantly gives her a point. Some of the girls in their class are... well, not entirely friendly, as Eponine knows all too well.

 **** “Tell us a bit about yourself, then we’ll get you a seat, alright?”

 **** She nods, smooths down the front of the hideous plaid kilts that make up their winter uniform (strictly within the acceptable length allowance, Eponine notes) and smiles. Her teeth are ridiculously white.

 **** “Well - my name is Euphrasie, but really, everyone calls me Cosette. My family moved here from Canada, so if I sound funny, that’s why! Um, I really love photography and art, and I play tennis.” She gives them another smile when she finishes talking. It’s ... pretty much the definition of charming, and Eponine wants to bash the girl’s stupid blonde head against the wall. What a fucking cliche.

 **** “I’m sure you’ll love it here at Saint Genevieve’s, Cosette,” the teacher says. “Now, let’s get you somewhere to sit down...”

 **** She glances up and seems to notice the only free seat is the one directly in front of her, next to Eponine. Eponine, who’s already realised this, does not try to hide her displeasure. Something sparks in the teacher’s eye, as if she thinks sitting next to such an obvious specimen of good behaviour will influence Eponine’s complete indifference to this class in any way, shape, or form.

 **** “Now, Eponine, we were just discussing your lack of textbook, weren’t we?”

 **** “Oh, I’ve got this one! Christian Lifestyles, right?” Cosette says brightly, pulling the requisite book out of her floral patterned bookbag. Eponine is at least happy to see that the bag doesn’t have her initials embroidered into it, and from what she can see there are no charms attached to the zipper.

 **** The teacher looks... vaguely disappointed at losing her opportunity to needle Eponine, but quickly recovers. “Yes, that’s the one! Glad to see at least you’ve arrived to us prepared. Now, Eponine, the first paragraph, if you will?”

 **** She complies, employing her most dispassionate monotone, and there are a few snickers from behind her. She has to repress a groan; at least last year they’d learned something vaguely interesting, Biblical history, not just a series of platitudes and instructions on how to become a good Christian housewife.

 **** The hour passes slowly, and when the bell rings Eponine is first to stand, grabbing her beat-up canvas knapsack. They’ve got homeroom, and hers is halfway across the school from the classroom they’re in now - it’ll be a bitch to get there in the five minutes they’ve got between periods.

 **** “Oh - Eponine, a word, please?” The teacher calls as she’s trying to make her way to the door. Rolling her eyes, she turns back to raise an eyebrow at the woman. “Your skirt, dear - it’s much too short! Two fingers above the knee, you know the rules. I’m going to have to give you a demerit.”

 **** Jesus fucking - It’s the same skirt from last year, but Eponine grew a bit over the summer. She’d hoped it wouldn’t be too noticeable, but the teachers have eyes like hawks for that sort of thing. And she’s got no money to waste on a new uniform skirt, anyway. “It’s the first day, ma’am, can’t you give me a break?”

 "You had all summer to check your skirt lengths. Surely your mother ought to have looked at your hem, it’s all ragged. _Really,_ Eponine.” She’s already filling out the demerit form, not even looking up, which is probably a good thing since Eponine is glaring daggers. She takes the pink slip of paper in one hand, and without saying a word, sweeps from the classroom out into the hall. If she shouts at a few freshman for moving too slowly, well, who can blame her, really?

 **** She’s late into homeroom, but luckily their advisor isn’t in yet - Doctor Lamarque is perpetually late, and he doesn’t give two shits about attendance, anyway. He’s a year away from retiring, and as head of the History Department, no one challenges his more than lax practices.

 **** Eponine slides into a seat at the back of the room and pulls out her phone. _Smoke tonight?_ she texts Grantaire. It’s their tradition to meet up and ride the train home together - he goes to the all boys school across the road, and they both live in the city.

 **** _duh. how’s ur day?_

 **** _i’m having the time of my fucking life. nothing like religious indoctrination to get your spirits up._

 _****_ _lol u should see e he’s seething about the comparative relig syllabus we got don’t think prof liked his rant about cultural imperialism at 9 am_

She snorts a laugh.

 **** “Eponine, right?”

 **** It’s Cosette, and for some reason she’s putting her bag down at the desk opposite, looking ... hesitant.

 **** “What are you doing _here_?” Eponine asks before she can think.

 **** “Well, this is my homeroom, I guess? It’s on my schedule, at least.”

Great. “Uh, we’re the P-T’s, you’re probably in the wrong place.” She glances back down at her phone, ignoring the wide-eyed look the other girl is giving her. Eponine tries to push away a weird prickling feeling that dances over her skin.

 **** “No, look, it definitely says room 198,” Cosette tries, but Eponine doesn’t look up.

 **** Dr. Lamarque decides that is his moment to waddle into class. He’s short and fat and bald, with an alarming affinity for James Madison and a love for speaking in the third person. Eponine thinks he’s hilarious in a weird, old man kind of way, and he likes that she doesn’t give a shit about anything, really.

 **** “Another year older, eh, Thenardier?” He wheezes as he makes his way by her.

 **** “Sure thing, Dr. L,” she replies.

 **** “Wait, who’s this?” He asks, stopping to peer myopically at Cosette. “Mary Kate, did you dye your hair blonde?”

 **** “No, sir, I’m new?” Cosette ventures. This, at least, gets her attention on something that isn’t Eponine, who has no desire to entertain a new girl for forty minutes. She half pays attention to Dr. L’s rambling monologue about who-knows-what, playing brickbreaker on her second hand Blackberry to pass the time. A voice crackles over the loudspeaker, announcing some sort of Activity they ought to be participating in, and a few of the other girls half heartedly try and get them involved. Eponine, who’s made it her goal to never be involved with anything, props her feet on the desk.

 **** “So, anyway, are all the classes here like that?” Cosette, who apparently can’t take a fucking hint, is back from sorting out her attendance, and she sits backwards in her chair, propping her head on her elbows and looking at Eponine with really, really blue eyes.

 **** “What, taught by uptight freaks with boners for traditional gender roles?” Eponine asks.

 **** Cosette giggles. “Yeah, like, what is that lady’s problem? I thought she was gonna cream herself when we started reading about ‘a woman’s call to motherhood’...”

 **** That gets Eponine’s attention. Cosette’s eyes are mischievous, and there’s a hint of a smirk playing at her mouth.

 **** “Well,” Eponine says, “Everyone thinks she wanted to be a nun, but they wouldn’t take her. Probably gets off on the idea of living in a cloister, or whatever.”

 **** Her phone buzzes again. It’s Grantaire. _somebody wants to protest ‘western hegemony and universalization of eurocentric norms’ 3 guesses first 2 dont count_

 _****__gee,_ she replies, _i wonder..._

 **** Somehow Cosette is still looking at her when she’s done texting. “Jesus, does being from Canada make you unaware of how to be normal?” She snaps, and a flash of hurt crosses Cosette’s face. “Stop staring at me.”

 **** She’s not entirely sure why she’s being so rude. She might hate the majority of the aspects of the school, but she’s not a mean person, and she gets along well enough with her classmates even if she doesn’t have much in common with them. But Cosette’s gaze is making her feel weird and squirmy, and she really just wishes she could go smoke a cigarette in the toilet and text Grantaire scathing comments about the administration.

 **** Cosette turns around, not replying. Another girl from their homeroom comes over and starts a conversation, asking the typical questions. New students are a novelty, especially in senior year. Cosette regains her friendly demeanour at once, laughing happily. Eponine can’t help but listen in, though she continues to stare at the home screen of her phone from her lap. Cosette, it turns out, is half French-Canadian, speaks fluent French, and just moved to what Eponine recognizes as an upscale suburban neighborhood, common amongst students at their school.

 **** She’s not surprised. Students from the city aren’t as common - there are about two dozen of them, but the rest come from the areas surrounding the school, which are generally affluent and can only be described as bland. Eponine, who lives in a five room apartment next to a 7-11 with her siblings and, when they make it home, their parents, sometimes wonders what it’s like, living in the McMansions out here, driving a car, owning more than one school uniform...

 **** Which reminds her, she’ll have to figure out something to do with her skirt before the entire Theology department gives her a demerit.

* * *

**** She’s in Mr. L’s class for History, third period - It’s Government, and she listens as he talks about the two party system, hand taking notes automatically. She’s not big on history classes, but it’s at least more interesting than some of the other classes, and Government is a graduation requirement, so she has to get it out of the way. It’s a double period class, but luckily Mr. L is a strong believer in easing them into things, and loads up a poor quality Youtube documentary about the history of political parties in the US, which means Eponine can lay her head on the cool wood of the desk and nap.

 **** One benefit of being a senior,  aside from having only 9 months between her and freedom, is eating in the school courtyard. The previous senior class ‘gift’ to the school had been a complete overhaul of the garden area, and while Eponine personally feels it’s all a little bourgeois, she has no qualms about sitting on a bench next to the statue of St. Genevieve herself, hushed in prayer. She tucks her feet up and pulls out her knock-off iPod. She doesn’t have money for lunch, especially not the overpriced shit they sell in the cafeteria, and the kerfuffle that morning meant she’d not had time to pack her own lunch, not with getting Gavroche and Azelma their brown bags. It’s not a big deal, though, since it means she can snag the prime seat while the rest of the girls are inside in the line.

 **** It’s sunny but not hot, and Eponine feels like a cat curled up in the open air. She’s got work that evening, a double shift at the 7-11, and she hopes fervently the teacher’s will follow Mr. L’s example and give them an easy homework load that week.

 **** She only opens her eyes and removes her headphones when someone nudges her feet, and she looks up to see Musichetta, the closest person she’d call a friend, who’s holding out an apple and looking disgruntled.

 **** “Jesus, E, you gotta eat something,” she grumbles, plopping down on top of Eponine’s legs on the bench.

 **** “Yeah, well,” Eponine says with a shrug, which Musichetta understands as a general ‘this is my life’ statement. She bites into the apple, kicks at her friend until her legs are free, and tucks them underneath her.

 **** Musichetta is _technically_  a teacher, but she’d graduated only just last year and spends most of her time in the darkroom or the studio, going to art school classes at nights. She’s the closest thing the school has to a famous alumna: her artwork has been featured in the city a few times, and they let her help teach the AP Studio class. She and Eponine had been friends since Eponine’s freshman year, when they’d started sharing bits of home cooked meals at lunch-times. Her family is from Indonesia, and Musichetta has golden skin and big brown eyes.

 **** “You coming out tonight?” Eponine asks. “Haven’t seen you in ages, feels like.”

 **** They’d spent the majority of the summer bumming around from party to party - Musichetta understands Eponine’s reluctance to spend much time at home, and indulged her fervor for getting really fucking drunk most nights of the holidays. But the last few weeks have been different, not due to any change in their friendship, but from outside factors, which means Eponine can’t even be annoyed about it.

 **** “I don’t know,” Musichetta hedges, “I’ve got class, and you know...”

 **** “Yeah,” Eponine says quickly, “I get it, just thought, maybe you’d want a break or whatever.”

 **** The problem is, in Eponine’s mind, now that Musichetta isn’t a student anymore, she’s got no reason to hang out as much with their group. It’s something she’s been worrying about, not that she’ll admit it. It’s selfish, but Eponine doesn’t like change, she doesn’t like having to adjust her high school routine to account for the gap Musichetta’s absence will leave. Having one person to talk to, even if Musichetta probably doesn’t consider her a close friend, is better than sitting alone at lunch every day, with nothing to eat.

 **** They’re silent for a minute, and Eponine’s shoulder subconsciously hunch a little bit.

“So, how’s Azelma doing?”

“Good.”

“That’s good.”

“Yeah.”

“Well,” Musichetta says, and the look in her eyes is rueful, “I’ve got to get ready to teach next period, I just wanted to say hey. Come find me whenever, I’m in the studio!”

“I will,” Eponine says, but she thinks she probably won’t.

 **  
**When Musichetta’s left, Eponine glances around and locks eyes with Cosette, who’s sitting at a table with a group of girls, several from their homeroom. Instead of looking away, pretending not to have been looking, Cosette just smiles, leaving Eponine to break eye contact and look down, strangely annoyed at herself for the heat that rises in her cheeks.

* * *

Grantaire meets her at the entrance to the subway ten minutes after the bell rings. Azelma’s texted her to say she’s going for smoothies after school, and Eponine is relieved that her sister is not floundering. Thenardiers are an adaptable sort. Eponine keeps her head down and her music loud as she makes her way through the senior parking lot, where her classmates are gathered round their cars, laughing and talking.

 Grantaire’s already got a cigarette lit, and he offers it to her as they stand at the edge of the parking lot.

 “You look like shit,” Eponine says.

 “Charmed,” he replies, but then sighs and shrugs. “Can’t go to class boozed up, can I?”

 “You learned that the hard way,” Eponine agrees. She eyes him more critically. Forced sobriety definitely explains the dark circles and his bloodshot eyes, and she gives him a sympathetic frown. Apart from Musichetta, Grantaire is her go-to party companion, and he’d been a constant presence in their summer endeavours. More than once she’d woken up next to him on a cold tile floor, both of them passed out in a rich kid’s bathroom, and they’d straggled back into the city together, hungover and nauseous.

 The train is, as usual, way too hot, and Eponine leans her head against the window as her thighs stick to the plastic seat.

“179 days till we’re done,” Grantaire says, his own head on the backpack in his lap. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes we had a class called christian lifestyles and yes it was as terrible as it sounds 
> 
> (however i do want to clarify that i don't think all religious teaching institutions are inherently terrible or w/e this is an exaggeration)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this chapter's so short... i have more written but i'm trying to post them at logical stopping places! (there will be more cosette next i promise)

She unlocks the door to their shitty apartment and calls out a greeting as she closes it behind her. Gavroche is on the couch, playing Call of Duty, his backpack forgotten on the floor next to him.

“Homework before you blow stuff up,” Eponine reprimands him. “You hungry?”

“Nah,” he says, not looking up.

She sighs. Gavroche seems to think if he doesn’t eat their food, it’ll make the rest of them eat more. He never admits to being hungry, even though Eponine knows he hasn’t eaten anything since the shitty PB&J she packed him, and he’s twelve, so of course he’s hungry. She rummages in the fridge for the milk, pulls out a box of easy Mac.

“Turn off the Xbox,” she calls again, bringing him a glass of milk and glaring. He sighs, but complies, pulling a notebook out of his bag. The elementary school’s been in session a week already. “If you need help, I’ll be getting ready for work - just shout. Mac’n’cheese is on the stove, don’t let it burn.”

Her brother nods, already focusing on the problem set in front of him. Eponine ruffles his hair fondly, then heads into the room she and Azelma share. The apartment has two two rooms that are technically bedrooms, and one large closet Gav has a mattress in. Eponine and Azelma share the smallest room, and the biggest one is for their parents, though half the time its empty, a useless waste of space. Just like their mother and father, really.

It’s better when it’s just the three of them, anyway. Eponine has woken up to the sight of their parents passed out in their own vomit more times than she’d care to recall, and dragging their unconscious bodies at least to the doorway of the master bedroom is an intermittent part of her morning routine.

She stands in front of the mirror on the closet door, pulling her 7-11 uniform, which is an unflattering shade of neon cherry, and pulls her hair back in a ponytail. Her face looks tired in the glass, and she rubs at her smudged eyeliner, but gives up on fixing her makeup. If she tries to look nice, she just gets more creepy come-ons from customers than usual.

Pulling on her khakis and sliding on her boots, she grabs the plastic bag she carries her work stuff in, heading back into the living room area. Gavroche is at the table now, the pot of mac’n’cheese on a coaster in the centre of the table. Eponine is proud of him for remembering, finally, to not let the pot burn into the wood, although it’s so scarred already it wouldn’t make much of a difference.

He’s put out a bowl for her, and with a grateful noise she plows through it, drains her own glass of milk, and kisses the top of her brother’s head. “Azelma’ll be home soon, make sure she doesn’t do anything too crazy, would you?”

Gavroche bats away her sisterly affections, but he agrees.

“I’ll try and bring home some out-of-date stuff, see if I can get those powdered donuts you love, but if you get hungry, there’s taquitos in the freezer. Make sure they haven’t gone weird before you heat them.”

* * *

 Gervais is behind the counter when she breezes in, reading some shitty car magazine and paying no attention to the ten year olds stealing candy. Eponine glares at him, then goes over and intimidates the kids into leaving. She knows they haven’t got the money for candy, and maybe she doesn’t notice the peanut M&M’s sticking out of the skinniest kids pocket.

“Good job, asshole,” she tells her co-worker as she comes out from putting her stuff in the back.

Gervais just shrugs. “Knew you’d handle it. Anyway, my shift over now you here.” He moves out from behind the cash register.

“Useless fucker,” Eponine breathes as she enters her details into the machine. Her shift starts right between the afternoon and evening rush - the kids from the nearby school’s have all come and gone, and the dinner people won’t be in for another hour or so. Mostly the first chunk of her shift is reorganising the merchandise kids knocked over and Gervais was too incompetent to clean.

She’s wiping down the slushie machine when he comes in. Unable, as always, to resist making an entrance, he stomps in and calls “Eponine, babe! Where is my favourite service worker?”

“Get out of my store,” Eponine calls back, and Montparnasse, who never listens, comes to lean against the opposite counter, unabashedly staring at her as she bends over the metal to reach the sticky syrup build-up.

“You _have_ to service me,” he says, and she can hear the cocky grin in his voice. “I’m a paying customer.”

“Sign says it’s my discretion,” she replies, but she makes her way back to the register and he follows lazily. “And you haven’t bought anything, yet.”

With a flourish he paces a pack of powdered donuts on the counter. “Two packs of Marlboro’s, and one of Trojan Magnums.” His wink is pronounced. Eponine wrinkles her nose as she retrieves his requests.

He pulls out a one hundred dollar bill. She just raises an eyebrow and crosses her arms. “I don’t wanna know where you got that. I can’t break it.”

“Oh, of course, how silly of me.” He makes everything he says into some kind of joke, but she can never tell if he’s laughing at her, or just at the world. He replaces the bill with a twenty, and she briskly makes change and hands it over to him, careful not to let their hands touch.

He picks up the cigarettes and condoms, slips his wallet back in his leather jacket, and turns to go.

“You forgot your donuts, fatass,” Eponine says, holding up the pack.

“They’re for your brat,” he replies, blowing her a kiss from the exit. Eponine stares after him for a moment before shaking her head at the whole encounter. She’s done all the maintenance necessary, so she pulls out the newest Us weekly, distracting herself from stupid criminals and their shiny hair.

Her shift ends at 10, and Magnon arrives looking harried. The other woman, a mother of two, can only work the graveyard shift since her boys have special needs. Eponine, whenever she’s feeling particularly despondent, likes to think at least she doesn’t have it as bad as Magnon.

She clocks out and heads home, smelling like burned taquitos and carrying a bag full of newly expired canned goods. They get the majority of their food from the 7-11, where the manager turns a blind eye to the workers skimming old products.

Her brother’s asleep on the couch, but he’s left his work out to show her he did it all. She nudges him, and he grumbles sleepily, but wakes up enough to trudge to his own mattress. She can hear music from her bedroom, meaning Azelma did in fact make it home. Stacking the cans of food in the cupboard, Eponine uses her other hand to send Grantaire a text. come over in 20? He lives a couple blocks away, in a slightly nicer area, but they usually meet at hers. Grantaire’s parents aren’t exemplary, but they at least pay some attention to his comings and goings. He provides the weed, Eponine provides the location, and things work well.

She heads back to her room to get out of her work clothes. Azelma is lying on her bed, on the phone with someone, chattering wildly. She waves at Eponine as she comes in. From what she can make of the conversation, Eponine gathers she’s speaking with a new classmate.

She pulls on her fuzzy pajama pants and a black tank, redoes her ponytail, and heads to the bathroom to wash her face, before going to settle on the sofa and flick on the TV. There’s reruns of South Park on Comedy Central, and she half pays attention until she’s jolted by the buzzer signifying Grantaire’s arrival.

 

* * *

 

She lets him in, and he joins her on the couch. He looks pretty much the same as he had earlier, although slightly less tired. Presumably he’s had his evening pick-me-up, confirmed by the lingering scent of booze, which is soon overpowered as he starts packing a bowl.

They move from the couch to the kitchen where she props open the window, and they sit next to it passing the piece back and forth in silence for a few minutes. They breathe the heavy smoke out into the darkness of night, listening to the sounds of the city beneath them. An ambulance blares by, and the incoherent ramblings of a passing bum mixes with the laughter from a window a floor below them.

“So,” Grantaire says eventually, “Senior year.”

Eponine only shrugs, letting her eyes drift closed and the swirly lightness fill her brain. “Yeah.”

“You think it’ll be any better than the last three?” His voice is slower too, and with a last huge puff of smoke he finishes out the bowl.

Eponine’s thoughts skitter to the new girl, Cosette, and her overly blue eyes.

“Huh?”

“You think senior year won’t be total shit?”

“Fuckin’ Montparnasse came to the store today,” Eponine says, not answering his question. “Bought Gavroche some donuts, the dick. Like I need his powdered sugar bribes.”

“How did you ever think boning him was a good idea,” Grantaire says in what she thinks is supposed to be a wise voice, but he just sounds completely faded. Eponine giggles and shoves at him.

“I was young and foolish,” she replies, and Grantaire snorts, since she’d only stopped sleeping with the thief at the beginning of the summer. “At least I was getting some, more than I could say about you and a certain blonde,” and Grantaire’s face goes even redder. “Maybe that should be our goal this year...”

“Yeah, okay,” he splutters, “I’ll reveal my life-changing crush if,” and he turns to stare into her eyes. His are very, very red. “If, if you find someone who’s not a super creep to date, okay? Don’t get back with him.”

He looks way too earnest for her. Eponine shifts uncomfortably. “You’re the only normal dude I know,” she says, “And you’re massively gay.”

Grantaire nods seriously at that, and she can’t help but laugh at his expression. Whatever conversation is lost in the sea of giggles that follow, and then Eponine retrieves a can of Pringles, liberated from the 7-11, and they amuse themselves making duck faces and getting greasy fingers until she realises it’s 1 AM and they’ve both got to go to class in 6 hours. Grantaire tries to get his things, head home, but she's having none of that.

“Couch,” she says to him, “And don’t you fucking dare complain about it.”

He salutes and goes to fall face first into the cushions. Eponine quietly sneaks into her room, but Azelma isn’t asleep - she sits up as her sister comes in.

“Hey, sorry,” Eponine whispers. “We were trying to be quiet.”

And she doesn’t get to bed for another hour and a half - Azelma apparently finds nothing wrong with discussing, in depth, her first day of high school at one in the morning.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay i was on vacation! 
> 
> just as a warning i updated the tags; there are 2 small mentions of abuse

Of course, Azelma’s not expecting to be woken up at 5am by someone pounding on their front door. Eponine isn’t either, but her sister groans loudly and stuffs her pillow over her head, which Eponine can’t do. She has to get up, shuffle out of her room and peer blearily through the peephole.

Grantaire’s awake, too, gazing at her from the couch, looking very befuddled. She waves off his inquisitive look, mouths an apology.

When she gets to the door, she sees Gueulemer about to raise his hand to pound at the door again. This can only mean one thing, and it can’t be good.

She keeps the chain in the door but cracks it open. “What do you want?”

“Boss’s been arrested, and his lady,” the dirty looking man says brusquely. “You gotta bail ‘em out, he ain’t got any cash.”

Eponine’s not surprised, but she’s damn well not pleased to hear from her father’s henchmen at five in the morning on a Tuesday. “We haven’t got any either.” It’s a lie - Eponine keeps a coffee can full of money on the top shelf of the cupboard, but she’ll be damned if she spends it bailing her useless excuse for parents out of jail for the umpteenth time. The bills are due next week and she has absolutely no faith in their ability to make it to a trial on time.

Gueulemer seems to be expecting this. “Thenardier told me you have a stash, give it over.”

“He’s wrong, we spent it.”

“Don’t fuckin’ mess with me, girl,” His voice is almost a growl, and Eponine isn’t dumb, she knows this man, he’s just like her father and neither of them have any qualms about hitting a girl. She looks at Grantaire out of the corner of her eye, wishing she’d made him go home the night before, because she really doesn’t need anyone finding out about her life like this. He knows the vague picture, but this is the shitty reality and she’s been more than content to keep it personal.

“Everything okay?” He asks, loud enough for Gueulemer to hear. He’s about to stand, apparently thinking sleep-deprived and hungover will ward off a professional thug.

“Fine,” Eponine replies, gesturing at Grantaire to sit and not turning from the man in her doorway, “You’re not fucking coming in my house, and I’m not giving you any cash, so wait right there and I’ll come with you to the station.”

Gueulemer sucks his teeth and turns, but he doesn’t try and come in.

“Look, Grantaire, I have to go - there’s been an ... emergency. Of sorts. Um, you’re welcome to whatever you want here, but I think it’s probably best if you just ... go home, after I’ve left.”

He looks concerned, but Eponine heads off any questions by heading into her room, where Azelma is half-asleep. “Mom and Dad got arrested, I gotta go. You make Gavroche his lunch and make sure he’s up in time, or I’ll want to know why. Can you tell the lady at the desk I’m sick?”

Azelma groans but agrees, sitting up and rubbing at her eyes.

“Also, I need your cash,” Eponine says. She’s already pulling a few bundles of 20’s from her sock drawer, and Azelma wordlessly hands her a few bills. They’ve done this before, although recently Eponine’s parents haven’t been around much, and she’d hoped that they’ve somehow... gone away. Of course not, she thinks, pulling on jeans and hooking her bra; they were just waiting for the most inconvenient moment to reappear.

Grantaire’s up and he watches her silently as she pulls out their winter stash out of the cupboard. If it’s anything more than five hundred they’re out of luck, she thinks, folding the money and sticking it in her bra.

“Is everything okay?”

“It’s fine, look, I’ll tell you later.” Not likely. She doesn’t wait to see what he does, just heads out the door.

Gueulemer looks up when she exits the apartment, and his eyes linger pointedly on her curves. Skin crawling, Eponine ignores him, and they silently make their way out to his shitty car. Eponine really doesn’t want to drive anywhere with this man, and really she only has his word that her parents are even in trouble - but he’s not a smart guy, just a mean one, and he doesn’t have the brains to trick her. She does sit in the back, though, as far from his eyes and his hands as she can get.

The drive to the station is short, but it’s too early for the train. In the early morning light the city looks almost friendly, or at least not overtly hostile. It’s not an ugly place; on the contrary, the worst neighborhoods are some of the most beautiful. Eponine has a fondness for the city that holds even through all the shit she’s put up with. If she didn’t have to worry about the location, she’d love to stay.

But whatever thoughts are shaken from her head as they park and she gets out. She’s established something of a mutual acknowledgement with the usual booking officers, and she hopes it’s one of them so she can get out of there as quickly as possible, and without having to actually see either of her parents. But as she walks into the building, she doesn’t recognise the man behind the desk; he’s big, built sturdily with a rough looking face and scruffy stubble. She thinks he looks bored and tired, at the end of his shift, but when she approaches, leaving Gueulemer in the car, he looks up and his gaze is piercing.

“Thenardier?” She says, and he raises an eyebrow.

“You’re their kid?”

She bristles. Why does he care who she is? Eponine nods, and he doesn’t say anything but just gives her an unfathomable look. “I’ll bring them out.” He heads back to the cells and returns with the two Thenardiers. Eponine sighs; no way to avoid seeing them, then. Her father’s face is blank and haughty, even though she can see vomit crusting his jacket, and her mother is high on something, babbling and grinning.

“Eponine, my baby girl,” her mother coos, reaching up to stroke her hair. There’s a creepy smile stretched on her face, and her eyes don’t focus. “You found me, I was lost, and now you’re here!”

“What the fuck, mom,” Eponine says, and she turns to Thenardier, glaring angrily. “It’s fucking 5:30 in the morning, what were you even doing?”

The officer clears his throat, presents her with the bill. Under charges, instead of the usual drunk and disorderly, there’s something about illegal narcotics, and Eponine’s hands clench with anger. Instead of making any attempt at being parents, maybe be there for their child’s first day of high school, the two of them had been out doing who knows what and getting arrested. The bond amount is higher; usually the Thenardier’s get picked up for more minor things, but they’ve skipped trial before, and the date for this one is a week off. Who knows what could happen between now and then. Eponine hands over the cash, wincing internally at the sight of all their money down the drain.

“Come on,” Eponine mutters to her father, “Your thug’s waiting outside.” He’s not sober, but he’s coherent enough to curse her out.

“Gimme some cash, girl,” he says, not looking at her.

“I just fucking spent all our money paying your bail, Dad,” Eponine manages to grit out. She tries not to wince in pain when he clenches an iron grip around her upper arm, hard enough to bruise. She can smell the waves of alcohol on his breath as he leans in close, baring his teeth slightly.

“Is that any way to talk to your father, you ungrateful little -” he says, mouth twisting.

“Is there a problem?” The officer’s voice is sharp and stern. Eponine takes the opportunity to wrench her arm out of her father’s grip, massaging the red skin.

“Of course not, Officer,” Thenardier says, his voice going oily slick, and he gives the man a mock bow. Eponine’s mother drops down into a wobbly curtsy, and almost falls, giggling. The officer doesn’t react, but his gaze seems to be enough of a deterrent that Eponine’s father doesn’t continue his threat.

Without another word, he marches out the door, his wife trailing behind. At the door she turns and calls gaily, “Bye, Eponine, darling!”

Only Eponine has no choice but to follow them out of the station, because Gueulemer was her ride over. Her father is conversing with him, something about a new cop they should “look into,” and neither man looks up. The Thenardiers and their lackey slide into the car, with Eponine’s father demanding to be driven to some address that’s definitely not the apartment.

“What about me?” Eponine asks, angrily, although she’s a little bit relieved she won’t have to deal with them being in their home, which only makes everything infinitely more complicated.

“I don’t give a fuck what you do,” Thenardier says, not even looking back as they drive away.

Great. Eponine stands outside the police station, staring after them. She can feel her body quaking in anger and outrage. She has a rough idea of where they are, at least the neighborhood, but it’s just barely after dawn and she has to be at school in an hour and a half. She’s tired and she’s angry and she’s embarrassed.

Forcing the writhing mass of emotion back down, she takes a long steady breath and turns to head back inside. She goes up to the officer at the desk, who looks up again, and raises an eyebrow.

“Excuse me, sir, but could you tell me where the nearest subway station is?”

He doesn’t ask for a reason, and he doesn’t offer her pity, both of which she’s grateful for. She can tell he has assessed the situation, and his face is understanding, but he merely points her in the right direction, gruffly.

The nearest Metro station is over a dozen blocks away, and she has to switch lines. By the time she’s back at the apartment it’s empty, Azelma and Gavroche apparently having gotten to class. There’s a note from Grantaire on the coffee table - hope everything is okay. call me. but she ignores it. Instead, she collapses into the shower, turning the water up to scalding and letting the heat and steam drown out the disgust and humiliation of everything.

It’s past seven already when she’s finished getting ready, and there’s absolutely no way she’ll make it to first period on time. Instead of trying, she texts Azelma a quick everything’s fine and guzzles a cup of coffee.

Eponine has no particular dedication to class; it’s not academic rigor that’s forcing her to get on the train when she wants nothing more than to collapse into her bed and blissfully ignore every and all responsibility. The problem is, her scholarship to Saint Genevieve’s has an attendance requirement, and using one of her few unexcused absences on the second day of the semester is really useless.

Which is why she puts on the stupid, woolly, itchy skirt and the completely unironic sweater vest that makes up her uniform, shoves her books in her bag and trundles back out to ride the train for half an hour. The time difference puts her in the middle of peak rush hour, so she has to stand with her hip pressed up against some business man’s back and someone’s arm in her face.

By the time she gets in the front door, and is confronted by the woman at the front desk, she’s ready to scream. Her head is pounding and she can’t help but snap. The one good thing is that her lack of sleep actually makes her look ill, so her excuse is accepted quickly. She’s sent to class with a late slip, and luckily she has art first period today, the completely useless and complex schedule scheme working in her favor for once.

Musichetta takes one look at her and says, “Darkroom is free,” which is really an excuse for Eponine to take a nap. She sets her bag down in the studio and heads into the tiny room, sits at the desk and puts her head down. She’ll smell vaguely like developing chemicals for the rest of the day, but the forty minutes of rest is worth it.

* * *

Or, it would be, if she weren’t woken up fifteen minutes into blissful sleep by someone coming into the darkroom. It’s only the first day of class, who could possibly need the room already? The photography class that meets in this hour is for beginners, students who don’t even know how to get film in a camera. Eponine glares balefully at the darkness in front of her, and switches on the red glowing lamp that sits on the desk, casting the space with a hellish light.

“Oh!” Says the intruder, sounding startled, “I didn’t know someone was in here.”

Whoever it is is still too far out of the light for Eponine to make out anything, and she’s groggy from her brief but interrupted nap. “Didn’t you see the occupied light?” She asks, not bothering to be polite.

“Sorry, Eponine, I can go -” And when the other girl says her name Eponine realises it’s Cosette, the voice familiar from their brief interactions the previous day. For some reason this makes Eponine sit up, lifting her heavy head from the table and squinting at the shadows.

“What - the new girl?” She says, “What are you doing in here?” It’s the same thing she’d asked upon discovering Cosette in their homeroom.

“I’m not... following you or anything. I mean, of course I’m not, that’s a dumb thing to say. Sorry, if you’re using the darkroom, I can go. I didn’t know there was an occupied light, at my other school it was different.” For some reason she sounds almost ...shy, which was not a word Eponine would’ve used to describe the blonde girl who chatted animatedly, and who Eponine had thought was a shoo-in for the most popular lunch table (not that she admitted to paying attention to that sort of thing).

“No,” Eponine says slowly, cutting off this flow of nervous words, “I was just... napping, you can use the room.”

Cosette steps forward, and the harsh red light illuminates her more fully. Eponine can see her curious expression, and the rolls of film grasped in her hand.

“How studious of you,” she says, and her mouth quirks up at the side. “Don’t let me interrupt, I can work around you. I just need to get these rolls started, I brought them with me...”

Eponine considers this. If she leaves the darkroom, her chances for a nap are drastically reduced, and she’ll have to face the Art teacher, a deranged woman with long gray hair and a desire to discuss politics with all her students, no matter their interest. She knows Musichetta’s marked her as present, so her hideout will go unnoticed if she stays.

But, on the other hand, Cosette is clearly much too cheerful for 8:30 in the morning, and Eponine’s general goal is to spend as little time in direct conversation potential with morning people. Particularly one’s who once again are wearing knee socks and a headband, although the red light lends the whole ensemble a nice demonic contrast. Cosette could be one of those creepy schoolgirls out of a horror film, with her porcelain skin and huge eyes and soft looking lips.

“Right,” Eponine says, shaking away whatever those thoughts were, “I’m going back to sleep, don’t talk to me.”

And she purposefully lays her head back down on her hands, closes her eyes and listens to Cosette settle at the next table, making quiet rummaging noises.

“Do you know where things are in here?” Cosette asks, a few minutes later. Eponine makes an annoyed sound. “Sorry, I know, but I figured...”

“I just use this room to blow off my class,” Eponine says, turning her head in her lap to glare once again. “Photography isn’t really my specialty, anyway.”

“Oh, do you do art?” Cosette sounds genuinely interested, which is unusual. Eponine blinks, once, twice, trying to decide if she should give up on her nap and indulge the pestersome blonde.

“Not really,” she says shortly, and it’s true: They’ve got absolutely no money for paint, canvas, or brushes. For her freshman year art requirement she’d borrowed supplies off Grantaire and insisted on paying him back with her paychecks from the corner store she’d worked at every weekend when she was 14. She dabbles when there’s supplies free in the school studio, but never with any consistency. For the most part her art classes consist of ninety-five percent sleeping and five percent sketching something random and turning it in last minute, scraping by with decent grades because she humors the teacher’s monologues with more aplomb than the rest.

“I love pastels, personally,” Cosette continues after it’s clear that’s the only response she’ll get, once again proving to be either oblivious to Eponine’s hostility or stubbornly ignoring it. Eponine isn’t sure which option is worse.

“You would,” she says. “You’re basically a walking pastel as it is.”

Cosette’s found whatever photo supply she’s been looking for, and she dramatically throws a hand on her chest, turning back to Eponine. “You wound me,” she says, and even in the macabre lighting there’s an obvious twinkle in her eye. “I meant oil pastels, thank you very much, because they’re much more full of emotion and passion, I think.”

“Jesus,” Eponine says, “R would love you. And Jehan, too, if you’re always a fucking drama queen.”

“Not all of us can be casually indifferent as you, you know,” Cosette says, but she’s still smiling, and Eponine frowns. “I don’t know an R or a Jehan, are they in our class?”

“No,” Eponine says. Then, before she can stop herself, she continues, “They go to the boy’s Prep school across the main road.”

It’s weird, Eponine thinks, when the bell rings - It hadn’t felt like forty minutes going by, sitting in the darkroom and talking with Cosette. She’s forced to admit her first impressions of the other girl were slightly off - Cosette is far from the epitome of Catholic schoolgirl. Eponine discovers she has a mischievous laugh and the spark never seems to leave her eyes, especially the few times Eponine looks up and makes eye contact in the gloom. She swears almost without realising it, but each time apologises, even though Eponine’s much worse about it. Cosette talks about moving from Montreal and Eponine finds herself genuinely interested in what she says.

Eponine gives her tips about the teachers and the faculty, and the best places to sit. It turns out they both do AP English, and Eponine’s impression of the teacher leaves Cosette gasping with laughter.

“What about the art teacher?” Cosette asks, “The crazy old lady, not the pretty assistant.”

Eponine’s not looking or she’d notice Cosette blush at her own words.

“Oh, she’s batty as hell,” she says instead, fiddling with a metal bit on the chair. “Honestly the woman never shuts up about political ideologies and all that - she’s like a 60 year old version of Enjolras...” briefly her mind wanders to Grantaire, and that morning, and a fresh wave of anger settles on her shoulders, because what does Enjolras, with his high-flown speeches and grand ideas about saving the world, know about having any kind of problems? She has to agree with Grantaire about him, really. If Enjolras was woken up to fetch his junkie family members from a police station, maybe he’d be a bit more realistic.

“Who?” Cosette says, after another overly long pause, and Eponine glances up, startled out of her thoughts again.

“Well...” And any thoughts of her parents are driven away by an attempt to explain Enjolras, and Enjolras in connection with Grantaire and the rest of the stupid group of boys he hangs out with at his own school. Eponine knows them all, a fairly steady presence at summertime and weekend parties, and they know her mostly through Grantaire. She’s on the fringes of their group, but she’s known the majority of the boys for four years and can’t help but be fondly exasperated by all of them.

She’s just explaining about Grantaire’s five year crush when the bell rings, and Cosette hangs up her final print to dry. Eponine is, as mentioned, surprised, and when they emerge into the art room she has to blink at the bright lights. Cosette follows her out and Eponine pauses to peel off her jacket, which she’d forgotten to remove in her haste for a nap.

“You owe me forty minutes of sleep,” she says accusingly, but Cosette’s not looking at her. Instead, her eyes are locked on Eponine’s forearm, where there’s a bright red handprint.

Fuck. Somehow she’d forgotten about her father’s antics that morning, swept up in laughing and joking, and now she fumbles to pull at her sleeve but it’s not long enough to cover anything and Cosette’s eyes have moved up to catch hers and Eponine feels shame and anger once again making her hot and embarrassed.

“Are you okay?” Cosette asks, and Eponine can hear the actual concern in her voice, and who the fuck is this girl, acting like she knows anything about anything when they’ve only known of each other’s existence for two days.

“I’m fine,” Eponine says, hoping maybe this time the warning in her voice will be heeded. She throws her jacket over her arm which shields the majority of the red marks from view, and turns to grab her bag, but Cosette reaches out an arm and grabs her wrist gently.

Eponine shakes off the light grip angrily, not liking how once again a weird feeling dances over her skin.

“What happened to your arm?” Cosette asks, her voice soft, and she’s not even trying to pretend she didn’t see. There’s no way to pretend it’s not someone’s hand, when the imprints of individual fingers are there as evidence on her skin. Almost hysterically Eponine thinks of the scars on her back from a belt and how little this matters in comparison.

“None of your fucking business,” she replies, icily cold. Whatever good will she felt has swiftly drained away.

“If someone hurt you, Eponine -”

“You don’t know anything,” Eponine says savagely, and the anger in her voice surprises even herself. “You don’t know me, at all, we barely talked for half an hour, so don’t act like you fucking understand, or whatever, okay? Jesus, I told you not to talk to me.”

Which isn’t entirely fair because their conversation of the previous chunk of time was decidedly reciprocal, but Eponine doesn’t care, she just wants to get out of the room and away from Cosette’s overly observant gaze, and the stupid humiliation she feels for no reason. It’s stupid because she hasn’t done anything wrong, but what the fuck was she thinking, expecting anything to ever be different?

She grabs her bag roughly and stalks out of the room, turning her back to Cosette who stands in the middle of the room, clearly confused, before gathering her own things and moving more slowly out of the art studio into the hallway.

It’s only later that Eponine thinks maybe she overreacted, and that maybe, even worse, she’d been disappointed because she had been hoping Cosette was different than the rest. The thought is not welcome, and when she realises it, Eponine says ‘fuck it’ to any notions of starting off the semester strong, excusing herself to the nurse with a vague ‘cramps’ that makes her last period Physics teacher wave her away, and heading right to the bathroom in the gym corridor with the window that opens and she pulls a cigarette from her pocket, lighting it up and sitting on the closed toilet. In the mirror she can see her reflection and the other Eponine stares back like she’s haunting herself. The red marks on her arm stand out like a brand and with a sigh she closes her eyes, blackness replacing her image in the glass, and she leans against the stall.

Grantaire’s texted her three times over the course of the day, but she doesn’t open any of them, and she hurries out of the building at the end of the day, offering no explanation to Azelma who sits next to her on the train, oblivious to all the thoughts swirling in her sister’s head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i will admit - i haven't read the brick yet (once exams are over!) so i just picked a member of patron-minette to be a lackey... if this doesn't fit with things from canon, i'd love for someone to let me know so i can change it to a random person 
> 
> anyway i hope eponine isn't weirdly characterised ... she seem like she'd be mistrusting of all the posh girls at the school, and also very secretive/prideful about her life/stubborn, so cosette's genuine concern comes across as insincerity/etc. because eponine's not gonna believe she's different from other girls


End file.
